The Worst Landlady in London
by Nytd
Summary: When Mrs. Hudson finally takes a stand against his outrageous behaviours and retaliates against the charismatic and masterful detective, she sets off a chain of events that might just have Sherlock Holmes wishing he lived somewhere else.
1. Chapter 1

The Worst Landlady in London

_The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him, and never dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem._

~The Adventure of the Dying Detective

~~o~~

It began one evening at the precise moment that I exited the cab onto the sidewalk in front of 221B Baker Street, having just returned from a most enjoyable evening at my club.

My pocketbook was a little leaner than when I had begun my night out, but such was often the case after a few rounds of billiards with Thurston. In fact, it happened about half the time that I chose to play against him, for we were evenly matched enough in skill that it was just as likely that I might return to my lodgings the poorer as the richer for our leisurely competitions. If I had the ability to catalogue all of our matches over the years, I suspect the ultimate tally of where the balance of funds stood might be somewhere close to dead even.

It was therefore that the small loss I had sustained that night gave me less concern than the pleasure I had gained from an evening spent in easy camaraderie, and it was with a light heart and a light step that I turned from paying the cabby who had delivered me to my doorstep, and began to rummage through my coat pocket for my house key.

Barely had I closed my fingers upon it, when a thunderous blast from overhead, accompanied by a burst of fierce orange light, forced me to duck involuntarily, frozen in place for a handful of seconds as some dark corner of my mind conjured up the nightmare that had been Afghanistan. Had my return from that horrid place been any more recent, I might have hesitated longer, but the realisation that the explosion had come from my own flat rudely shook the surprise from me, and I catapulted myself up the few stairs to the front door, unlocking it clumsily in my haste. Even as I managed to shove it open, I could see that my landlady had already made it to the half-way point up the stairs, and I launched myself up the flight to make it to the door to our sitting room at the exact same moment as she.

~~o~~

Mrs. Hudson, the long-suffering landlady of Sherlock Holmes, (and myself, at times, I fear) had tried that evening, as had I, to enjoy a leisurely night off and the company of several dear friends of hers: three matronly ladies who periodically took turns hosting tea or a casual dinner for one another, spending the time in each other's company reminiscing about late husbands, complaining about the rising costs of shoes and sugar, and speculating about the latest news in the gossip and society columns of the papers.

On that particular occasion, it had been Mrs. Hudson's turn to host the gathering, and her female confederates and she had been sipping sherry after dinner, (perhaps a little generously) and giggling like schoolgirls over the fact that it seemed, according to the _Evening Standard_, that Sir Thomas Colville had managed to find himself a bride, albeit in a rather unconventional manner.

Because my own reading was not confined strictly to the police reports or the agony columns, I too, had become aware of what the ladies had been discussing that very evening. For the third year in a row, the _Evening Standard_, catering primarily to their female demographic in an attempt to sell more papers, had sponsored a contest that it updated weekly in a feature column which highlighted a London gentleman of note who had not yet been married. The bachelor for each contest had been picked by the staff of the newspaper, having been chosen from nominations submitted by their readers, and Sir Thomas was the third of these gentlemen, after Ethan Rombauer, Esq., the previous year, and their predecessor Milton Chesterfield, of Burke and Chesterfield, well-known importers of fine wine, to have been given such an honour.

From my brief perusal of the column each week, I had been able to gather that once a likely candidate had been found and his name published in the paper, it was then up to any eligible and eager ladies to submit an essay in writing to the newspaper, describing in 200 words or less why they should be picked to spend an evening with the chosen bachelor. The newspaper staff, having read through several score of submissions each week, would pick the three they found most engaging and then publish them in the contest column. Once published, readers were to submit their votes by mail for the essay they most favoured, and the winner that week would have the honour of accompanying the designated bachelor for an evening out. This process went on for some six weeks, resulting in the introduction of the bachelor to six mystery ladies of all possible description and disposition.

While on the surface it was an entertaining distraction for readers, it certainly was a clever and successful ploy by the _Evening Standard_ to outdo its competitors. The upcoming fourth year promised to be just as compelling for dedicated followers of the endeavour, for Sir Thomas, unlike the first two men, had actually found a handsome woman who was an excellent match, and their betrothal was the topic of all the society columns that week, as well as of the small gathering of women who sat in Mrs. Hudson's small parlour.

"I still say that it all has to do with his money," Mrs. Blagburn huffed suspiciously, joining in the current topic of conversation.

"Oh, Heddie, you're so cynical," Mrs. Hearst chided her companion. "The girl comes from enough money of her own to bother caring about his, isn't that right, Martha?"

"I suppose she does," Mrs. Hudson replied thoughtfully. "But I heard her family wasn't at all pleased at the manner in which they were introduced. A bit sensational for their liking, it seems."

Mrs. Blagburn chuckled a little. "It would seem as though the readers were pleased enough. I heard that the _Evening Standard's_ circulation increased to a record number the week when the engagement was announced."

Mrs. Hearst had another sip of sherry and then grinned conspiratorially at her neighbour seated next to her on the small sofa. "Heddie, what say we submit your nephew as a candidate? You're always on about how he works too much and needs to meet a nice young lady."

"Thank you, no," Mrs. Blagburn replied with a light laugh. "Even I am not so desperate as to subject him to such an ordeal. The calibre of some of the women those poor men must have to put up with during the contest!"

Mrs. Hearst gave a little shudder. "One can only imagine."

Mrs. Franklin, with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, then put forth an outrageous suggestion. "I have a better idea -we should all write essays this year and submit them!" This set the group of four women to giggling as the sherry was passed once again.

"You can't be serious, Lizzie!" Mrs. Blagburn scolded her in a way that said she thought the idea to be outstanding.

"Oh, my, aren't we a bit too old for that?" Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling nonetheless at the notion of the four widows submitting their writing efforts to the newspaper.

"What harm would it be?" Mrs. Franklin asked the other three. "It would be a contest to see which of us might be the most skilled at writing, should one of our essays be picked."

"And a chance at dinner with a handsome and interesting younger man," Mrs. Hearst chimed in, setting off yet another round of politely but barely suppressed giggles. The girlish laughter subsided after a moment, and Mrs. Hearst became more serious. "Would you do it?" she asked, looking around the group until her eyes met those of Mrs. Hudson.

"Write an essay?"

"No, be courted by a man again after all these years."

Silence fell upon the four women as each contemplated their answer to such a question, but it was a silence that was to last only a second or two, as overhead an explosion roared, and the walls of the house trembled a little with the impact. Mrs. Hudson's three guests screamed in unison, and Mrs. Franklin broke into tears even as her hostess sprang to her feet and grabbed up her skirts.

"_Mr. Holmes!_" she gasped softly in alarm, racing from her parlour and up the stairs to where tiny curls of black smoke were threading their way between the door and the jamb.

~~o~~

I hit the top landing one step behind Mrs. Hudson, and she stepped aside to let me shove the door open roughly, following hot on my heels into the fetid cloud that blanketed most of the sitting room before us.

"Holmes!" I shouted, my voice echoing the concern that was plainly etched on our landlady's face. No reply came and my heart sank, as no doubt did hers.

"Holmes!" I repeated again with no success, and I gestured for Mrs. Hudson to open the front windows as quickly as she could, even as we both began to cough in the poisonous, dark atmosphere of the sitting room.

It only took a moment for the smoke to clear enough that I could discern the prone form of my friend on the floor, and I flung myself to my knees at his side. His eyes were closed, his dressing gown covered in soot and God-knows-what, and a thin rivulet of blood crossed his forehead and dripped steadily onto the carpet. Its source was a small piece of glass embedded in Holmes's scalp, just below the edge of his dark hair, and there appeared to be a few more tiny fragments likewise implanted in his cheek and chin.

Mrs. Hudson was in tears as she joined me at his side, gasping and clasping her hand over her mouth at the sight of all the blood. As far as head wounds go, it was not much to speak of, but even small wounds to the scalp tend to produce copious amounts of haemorrhage, and the small laceration Holmes had sustained was no exception. A few sutures would put it right, but it was more his other possible injuries that concerned me.

My fingers upon his throat found a strong and steady pulse, and it must have been my touch more than my voice that prompted his eyes to suddenly flutter open, filling me with great relief.

For reasons that I shall never understand, it was at this moment that Mrs. Hudson, like any woman who might have been there in her stead, actually began to cry harder despite the fact that it appeared Holmes was not as gravely injured as we first feared.

"Watson," Holmes croaked, wincing as he raised a hand to the source of the pain in his head and then drawing away slender fingers covered in blood. He stared at them for a long moment, and then his eyes met mine again.

A slow, shrewd, sly grin wound its way gradually across his soot-blackened lips, and his eyes glittered with keen anticipation from his smoke-covered countenance like diamonds among coal.

"I _have _him, Watson," was what he said, lying there still upon the carpet.

"Have who, Holmes?" I asked, thinking that he might be delirious from the impact of the explosion that had taken place.

"Renfield," he replied, his expression taking on that manic, determined look that it so often did when his net was closing upon his prey, despite the fact that he still lay flat upon the now somewhat bloodied carpet.

"The arsonist?" I asked, and I admit I did so with some trepidation. Not because of any danger that closing in upon the elusive Renfield posed, but because my observant and experienced landlady was about to recognise what I just had –Holmes had induced this explosion within the confines of our rooms _intentionally_.

"_What?_"

The one word she spoke informed us that all was known to her.

"You mean to say that you _meant_ to create that...that...explosion?" she gasped in disbelief. "Indoors!"

Holmes, too preoccupied with his now-imminent victory in a case, missed the dangerous tone in her voice as well as the sudden disappearance of tears.

"I have discovered the precise reaction which afforded him the delay that he needed, Watson! Although I admit that I somewhat misjudged just how little reagent it would take to produce such a substantial…"

"Misjudged?" Mrs. Hudson demanded. "_Misjudged?_ You blew a hole in the table, and frightened my ladies half to death; why they're still in the foyer downstairs crying!"

Indeed she was right –the sounds of three very distraught and concerned widows could be heard as they mulled about at the foot of the stairs, uncertain whether to rush from the building or up the stairs to aid their dear friend.

"I do apologise if I startled any of your guests," Holmes began from where he still lay.

"_Startled_?" Mrs. Hudson cried, her manner becoming slightly unhinged at the suggestion that she and her women friends had been merely startled. "You nearly gave me heart failure! Again!

"Not only have you managed to nearly blow yourself up...just look at you lying there with glass sticking out of your head...you're lucky you didn't lose an eye...but there is blood all over my carpet!

"Oh! And have you seen_ my ceiling_?" she demanded, suddenly craning her neck to look at the expansive and evil black soot flower that had bloomed across the white plaster.

"Nothing a little elbow grease can't remove, my dear lady," Holmes replied in an attempt to sound unconcerned, gesturing calmly at the charred ceiling from where he remained sprawled on the bloodied carpet to which Mrs. Hudson had just referred. Unfortunately, (and probably correctly) Mrs. Hudson interpreted Holmes to mean _her_ elbow grease, and she actually stomped a foot in indignation.

"This is absolutely the last...oh! Why I put up with you I'll never..."

She didn't finish as she turned and stormed from the room and down the stairs. A slamming door followed by muffled and agitated female voices suggested that the foursome had sequestered themselves in Mrs. Hudson's parlour to commiserate with her over more sherry about just how awful her famous tenant was.

"Well, old man," I said, sliding an arm under Holmes's shoulders and helping him to stand up, "let's get you a whiskey and soda and then take that glass out of your head."

I tended to Holmes's wounds, cleaning them and picking out all the small pieces of glass that I could find, using his own magnifying lens, and neatly put four sutures in the small gash along his temple. After he had got himself washed up and into un-charred clothing, it would have been my preference to keep him under my supervision for at least the next few hours, but I knew better than to hope for so much. Once I finished wrapping the bandage in my hands around his head, I knew he'd be off and out into the night, tracing the newest thread of his investigation to its conclusion despite the hour.

"I shan't do anything significant without you there!" he called from the stairs, pulling on his coat as he reassured me that I would be in at the kill when it happened.

I settled for making an attempt at cleaning up the shattered glass that was the aftermath of Holmes's latest experiment, and as I listened to his energetic step leave the final stair and head out into the street, I found it a queer thing to recognise that I was hearing a great deal of muffled ladies' laughter emanating from Mrs. Hudson's rooms.

Glad that her company had put her in better spirits than she had been in half an hour before, I finished with the glass and headed for my own room, knowing better than to wait up for Sherlock Holmes.

~~o~~

It took me as quite a surprise the next morning when Mrs. Hudson showed up with a mop and a bucket and began not only cleaning up the after effects that were left from the previous night's events, but did so cheerily, prattling on about what a nice visit she'd had with her three guests, and how lovely the weather appeared to be. She'd turned down my offer to help in any way, insisting that I enjoy my breakfast and newspaper instead, and most surprising of all, when Holmes showed up sometime just before lunch, she actually seemed glad to see him.

"Can I fetch you something for lunch, Mr. Holmes?"she asked pleasantly, and I swore I saw a brief look of surprise flash across Holmes's face.

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Hudson, but thank you. I must, however, steal Watson away, for our case has nearly run to its conclusion."

The meaningful look he shared with me told me that he was closing in fast on Renfield, and I vacated my chair to join him for the final chapter in his current case.

Mrs. Hudson merely smiled as we left, and wished us both to be careful as we went out.

When we arrived back at Baker Street several hours and one captured arsonist later, we met Mrs. Hudson at the door where she had just sent a messenger boy back off up the road.

"How did things go?" she asked, walking into the foyer as we did.

"Splendidly," was all Holmes said with a quiet smile, and he trudged up the stairs to disappear. I knew it would probably be late the next morning at least before I saw him again.

In fact, it was well after tea by the time Holmes, exhausted from his frenetic pursuit of Renfield of the past few weeks, had finally risen, dressed, and made his way into our sitting room, an unlit pipe hanging from between his lips as he searched the mantel for matches. At last finding some, he draped himself with apparent satisfaction across his chair, contentedly smoking and looking like a cat who had managed to consume a particularly plump canary without anyone having been the wiser. Although it could at times be a little irksome, his few moments of self-indulgent crowing and preening over being more clever than his opponent were really the only reward and recognition he allowed himself; no mention of his name, as far as he was concerned, need ever appear in the papers concerning such matters.

"Where shall we dine tonight, Watson?" he asked, his fine mood and apparent thoughts of a celebratory dinner contagious. "Café Caldesi or Café Royal?"

"Why not Marcini's?" I suggested just as Mrs. Hudson knocked upon the door and then entered.

"The paper, gentlemen," she said, handing over the _Evening Standard_ to me with a charming smile. "Shall you be dining out?"

"We shall, Mrs. Hudson," I said back cheerfully, and she nodded amiably, knowing already that it was our custom to do so upon successful conclusion of an important case. It was likewise her custom to visit with her lady friends on such evenings that we didn't require anything of her, and she offered Holmes a particularly engaging smile, and then retreated to the company of her arriving companions.

"Well then," Holmes said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, "let us hear what the papers have to say about our friend Bradstreet's success in the Renfield arson case."

I opened the paper to find the correct article, indulging in another of Holmes's queer whims –his preference that I read the report aloud to him rather than reading it himself the first time. Once again it mattered not that it would be Inspector Bradstreet's name and not his that appeared on the page; it only mattered that the case he had solved would be reported as a success.

It was therefore that my surprise at seeing Sherlock Holmes's name in the bold print of the headline before me must have been very readable in my expression.

"What is it?" Holmes asked, a little impatient with me for not beginning.

"Nothing, it's just that Bradstreet must have decided to let you..._Good Heavens!" _I cried, uncertain how such a thing as I was reading could have ever come to pass. I stared at him and then the paper, completely baffled.

"Watson, pray do read on," Holmes said, gesturing at me insistently with his pipe.

"I think you'd better read this one for yourself, old chap," I said, acutely aware of the distant sounds of muffled feminine laughter from downstairs.

It was then with great reluctance that I handed over the headline that had nothing whatsoever to do with the latest captured arsonist, and everything to do with the _Evening Standard's_ newest eligible bachelor.

~~o~~

**A/N:** While I originally wrote this as a one-shot, I am considering expanding it into a multi-chapter story, so there may end up being more affectionate torment for the good detective. :)

A huge thank you to damse-in-stress for help with British spelling again!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks to Sunsesco, and to everyone else who let me know that they had fun with the first chapter! :)

Chapter Two

~~o~~

It is a very rare thing indeed to see Sherlock Holmes struck completely speechless, but upon that early evening, one day after the arrest of Renfield the arsonist, my dearest friend was in just such a state.

Thrice he'd opened his mouth, attempting and then failing at words of any sort, and the effort had the effect of making him seem rather like a distraught fish out of water.

Any colour had drained from his already fair complexion, and such a range of emotions rapidly swept across his countenance, one after the other, that it was difficult to say just precisely what they all were. Complete shock, puzzlement, and anger were certainly among them, as could well be expected, but knowing him as well as I did, I swore I saw dread rotate through more than once.

"_Watson_," was all that he managed to gasp after a moment, still clutching the day's _Evening Standard_ and staring at it, unseeing. Reading the headline once was sufficient to stun him the way a bucket of cold water poured over his head might have done, and I could tell he hadn't bothered to attempt reading any further.

I was accustomed to seeing abrupt changes in disposition and rapid swings of mood with my companion, but the transformation that had come over him within the last thirty seconds was a thing rather extraordinary, if not heartrending, to behold. For at the one moment he was master of all he saw –the victor of his hard-fought battle, perched upon his chair in the manner of a falcon that has finally devoured its prey, and then allowed itself a moment to preen its magnificent feathers in the sun. At the next moment it was quite as if he'd been deflated, sinking into his chair in defeat, brought low with the same swiftness a bullet might have brought down the falcon from its aerie.

I do confess, however, that if it hadn't been for the fact that the news in the headlines had such a profound and distressing effect upon my companion, that I might have found the whole idea rather amusing. The thought of Sherlock Holmes having to be subjected to a half-dozen eager and eligible ladies over the next few weeks, or rather six ladies having to be subjected to Sherlock Holmes, was enough that it caused me some fair effort to maintain an expression of sufficient solemnity while Holmes tried to process what had just happened to him.

"Here," I finally said, holding my hand out for the paper once more, determined that I should read the article and therefore be better informed about the announcement contained therein.

The headline read: '_Evening Standard's Fourth Eligible Bachelor to be Sherlock Holmes, London's Famous Detective_,' and I admit that I was glad the newspaper I held hid any twitching of the corners of my mouth. By that point Holmes's expression had settled firmly into one clearly displeased but also of great thought, and I knew the cognitive wheels were turning rapidly to discern just how such a thing could have happened.

"Shall I read it to you?" I ventured delicately.

I interpreted his agitated gesture to mean that I should do so, and so I read:

[_The editors and staff of the _Evening Standard_ are delighted to announce the selection of this year's Eligible Bachelor. After due consideration of a number of most interesting and very worthy nominees, it was by unanimous vote that the editors chose Mr. Sherlock Holmes, famous private detective.]_

"_Consulting_ detective!" Holmes ejaculated with no little agitation, with that, springing to his feet to begin pacing, gesturing abruptly at me to continue as he did so, pipe clenched fiercely between his teeth.

[_The editors are pleased that Mr. Holmes has graciously accepted the offer to participate in this year's contest, and agree with the four individuals who nominated him that he will most certainly prove to be a gentleman whose company any proper lady might find herself fascinated with for an evening._]

"I say, old fellow, you actually had _four_ nominations," I commented, only to receive a snort of indignation in return as he stalked back and forth across the sitting room, puffing furiously on his pipe and leaving a smoke trail behind him quite reminiscent of the 10:35 Express to Bristol. I attempted to pick up where I had left off.

"Let's see, it says here," I began.

"Wait!" Holmes froze in place and turned sharply my way. "Did you say _four_ nominations?"

"Yes."

I could see the mental gears grinding for another moment, and then a look of stricken comprehension dawned across the aquiline features.

"No, it couldn't be!" he uttered softly, sinking once again into his chair and appearing to mull over whatever conjecture had just formed in his brain. "Could it?

"Could she?

"Would she?"

"I'm afraid you've once again left me a step behind, Holmes," I replied, anxious to hear what theory he had formulated.

"Ha! A forgery!" was all that I was offered by way of an answer, and Holmes then gestured that I should read on.

[_While Mr. Holmes is perhaps best known for his contributions to solving crime in and around London, a fact that readers will be familiar with through this publication and the writings of his assistant, Dr. John Watson, he has chosen to share, in the answers to the questionnaire provided to him by the editors of the Evening Standard, a little more about himself so that prospective female applicants to the contest might be better informed about the esteemed yet enigmatic person they may have the good fortune to spend an evening with._]

"Questionnaire?" Holmes and I each asked simultaneously, glancing with some trepidation at each other from our respective armchairs. A single apprehensive nod from him told me to forge onward.

[_When not apprehending criminal elements of the city, Mr. Holmes has indicated that he enjoys the symphony, the opera, and in fact, plays the violin himself quite proficiently. He is a chemist of some note, a boxer, fencer, and an expert singlestick player._]

"Well, at least they've got that much right," I said, before reading onward.

[_In the matter of the fairer gender, Mr. Holmes has informed the Evening Standard that he prefers nothing better than afternoon picnics in the countryside with a female companion, unless it is a long walk upon the shore discussing philosophy, or an evening lingering for hours in conversation about poetry over a bottle of wine by candlelight._]

"Beastly woman!" Holmes suddenly cried out, clearly most agitated about the inaccuracies that had managed to be reported in the newspaper. "Those misstatements were intentional and malicious, meant to make this all the more trying for me! Well, she shall not succeed, Watson! I shall immediately inform the editors that a deception has been perpetrated, and withdraw at once from this ridiculous scheme!"

"You may want to rethink that," I said, having read on while Holmes had been sputtering like a nearly spent candle flame. "I think you'd best hear what it says next before you contact the paper about withdrawing. It might cause a bit of a sensation."

"Bah! And who am I to care what the public does or does not think? Does it affect my work? Will it change the way I conduct myself in my affairs? I think not!" he huffed contemptuously, flinging himself to his feet and snatching up a pen and sheet of paper at his desk. I read onward, nonetheless, before Holmes could do anything rash.

[_While the editors were most pleased that Mr. Holmes accepted the nomination this year, we are, in fact, even more thrilled to accept the conditions that our illustrious bachelor has stipulated as part of his participation. Mr. Holmes has suggested that not only should the contest be a way to entertain readers and encourage the creative literary abilities of the fine women of London wishing to participate, but that with the attention that the yearly contest garners, it should be used as a method of humanitarian outreach that endeavours to return something to the great city that has supported this publication. It is therefore, at Mr. Holmes's suggestion, that the rules of the contest have been altered this year, and that any fine eligible lady must, along with her essay, submit a fee of £1, with all funds collected being submitted to charity at the end of the six week contest._

_When the Evening Standard enquired of Mr. Holmes if he had a suitable charity in mind, he immediately expressed that he could think of no better or more worthy cause than The Metropolitan and City Police Orphanage._]

"Harridan!" Holmes gasped, dropping the pen he had picked up a moment before. "She has undone me!" With that he sank into his chair, once again with a very unfamiliar look of defeat expressed upon his features. Clearly he recognised that with the final lines of the article, there was no manner in which he could withdraw from the contest without creating a public scandal, as well as one with Scotland Yard and indeed, the orphanage itself.

"I'd say that you're going to have to weather the storm, old fellow," I said quite gently; it was nothing that he hadn't already come to realise.

Holmes shot me a look of miserable concurrence, and then heaved an exasperated sigh of great proportion. "The whole affair smacks of a woman's scheming. She is exacting her revenge on me, Watson, and there isn't a single solitary thing that I can do about it."

"Who is?" I asked, still somewhat mystified. "Revenge for what? Just what are you saying?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes pronounced unhappily.

"_What?_"

"I believe the little incident with the chemical reaction might have been too much for her," Holmes replied, clearly downplaying that the _chemical reaction_ was a violent explosion that had implanted glass in his forehead.

I thought it over for a moment, wondering if our landlady had the gall to do such a thing.

"Combine the influence of a fair amount of sherry and the support of her three female confederates," Holmes chimed in, apparently reading where my thoughts were headed, "and I suspect her perfectly capable of inflicting such a supposedly harmless yet agonizing retribution."

It struck me that Holmes's tone had taken on a somewhat petulant affect, yet the more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that he just might be right.

"Consider the four nominations," he continued. "Did she not have three companions that might have all acted in concert to increase the odds that I would be selected?"

In fact, what he said was true, but I suspected it would have only taken one nomination of Sherlock Holmes for the editors of the _Evening Standard_ to appreciate that obtaining the famous yet enigmatic detective's cooperation in the contest would mean the sale of an awful lot of newspapers. I could picture them fairly salivating at the chance to pull off such a _coup_, and I said as much.

"No doubt," Holmes agreed reluctantly, "and apparently you and I are not the only ones to think so."

"But surely, Holmes, Mrs. Hudson would never…"

"Who _else_ would do such a thing, Watson? Who else might conceive of such a notion, knowing that I would find the contest such an infinite and infuriating waste of time?"

I admit that I could think of no one, save myself, other than our landlady who might know just how exasperating six evenings in the exclusive company of an overly eager female would be for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"But there must have been some communication concerning whether or not you would agree to the nomination," I ventured. "A letter or telegram…"

"Intercepted," Holmes replied, re-lighting his pipe, "and not an uncommon occurrence."

Indeed, Mrs. Hudson was the first to receive the majority of our mail.

"I should think they would require a signature from you," I continued.

'Forged," Holmes replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, "as she has on many occasions at my behest while I was absent.

"She's actually quite adept at it, you know. I suspect that were we to inspect any signature of mine that our good landlady has reproduced, with my knowledge or otherwise, that anyone but myself would be hard pressed to tell the authentic from the fake."

"Well, what about this questionnaire that you supposedly answered?"

"Ghastly fabrications. I thoroughly suspect the work of four seemingly harmless widows."

I had to concede his point; it most certainly did seem like the sort of mischief that might arise from four matrons under the influence of just a little too much sherry. I had encountered the foursome in just such an uninhibited and mirthful state once or twice when unexpectedly imposing on Mrs. Hudson as she was entertaining.

"Well, will you go through with it?" I asked, folding the paper and setting it aside.

"I see no other course of action available," Holmes answered miserably.

"Cheer up, Holmes," I said. "It's only six evenings. It could be a lot worse."

I ignored the dark look he shot me.

"Let's go to dinner; you'll feel better after some food and a glass of wine." Before he could protest, I had gathered up his coat and hat and handed them to him, then shrugging into my own.

"Very well."

Despite his lack of enthusiasm, I managed to drag him outside and hail a cab to take us to Marcini's, thinking to take his mind off the contest over dinner. I admit that I failed miserably, for once we arrived at the restaurant and were seated, a steady stream of visitors to our table, regulars who knew just who Holmes was, continued to congratulate him on his selection, as well as to praise his brilliant philanthropic notion that the contest should be turned into a fundraiser for such a worthy cause.

Holmes, dismayed by the constant interruptions to our dinner, managed to eat very little, but I fear consumed more and more of the bottle of claret on the table, until I realized that it was empty and that I'd yet to top my glass off once. He brooded silently across the table from me, barely glancing up at the next well-wisher to stop off at our table.

The cab ride home was no better as my companion sulked next to me, and when we entered the foyer at home, he paused for just a moment, fastening a resentful glare on the door to Mrs. Hudson's rooms before heading off to his own room, not to join my company again that evening.

~~o~~

Lonely and ill children at the orphanage or no, the occurrence the next morning nearly sent Holmes storming off to the offices of the _Evening Standard_ to tell them just what they could do with their damnable contest.

Having arisen somewhat earlier than was my custom, I had rung for breakfast but not yet seen or heard any sign of Holmes behind his closed bedroom door. It was not long after that Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tray in her hands, at the same time carrying a rather large basket slung over one forearm.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said pleasantly, and although I scrutinised her manner carefully, I could discern no hint that anything was amiss as she set the tray on the table before me. "This arrived for Mr. Holmes just now," she added, setting the basket on the floor next to the table.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, but before I could enquire as to who had sent the basket, the door to Holmes's room sprang open.

"Ha!"

Unshaven, uncombed, and still attired in his nightshirt, Holmes pointed an accusing finger at our landlady from the doorway.

"This is your doing!" he said, rapidly approaching the table with his finger still aimed at her.

"But, Mr. Holmes, I always make breakfast," Mrs. Hudson replied, looking confused.

"You know very well breakfast is not that of which I speak," he continued, folding his arms across his chest and looming over her.

"I had nothing to do with the basket," she replied, consternation crossing her features. "I merely delivered it, after it arrived at the door."

"Nor am I speaking of the…" he broke off, looking unhappy.

"Basket; what basket?" he demanded.

Mrs. Hudson and I each pointed to the one beside the table at his feet.

"Who is it from?" Holmes asked, scrutinising the parcel suspiciously as if it might spring to life and bite his ankle any moment.

"I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson replied with an effort to remain patient. "Now, unless you gentlemen need anything else, I'll be off to run some errands."

With that she proceeded towards the landing outside the sitting room door.

"Don't think I'm not aware of what you've done!" Holmes called after her, causing her to share a last brief look with me that said she appeared to be a little concerned for Holmes's state of mind before she closed the door.

I admit that given Mrs. Hudson's unimpeachable normalcy, I briefly entertained the possibility that Holmes was wrong about her and might have received more of a blow to his head after the explosion than I had first suspected. His next comment convinced me again that his theory very well was right.

"Don't you find it more than a bit odd, Watson," he began as he picked up the basket and set it upon the breakfast table, "that Mrs. Hudson failed to mention the announcement in last night's _Evening Standard?_ I should think, that were she innocent, she would have raised the subject in a most surprised fashion."

I had to admit that Holmes had another convincing point.

"I wonder who this is from?" he asked me, reaching for the lid to the basket.

I shrugged, returning to my breakfast as he delved into the contents of the basket. He reached in and pulled out a bottle of Bordeaux, and set it upon the table. "I see some client or other has sent you a gift of appreciation," I said, reaching for the bottle and examining the label.

"I think not."

When I looked up, Holmes was standing there staring into the depths of the basket as if it contained a severed human hand.

"What is it?" I asked, a wave of apprehension flooding my veins as I set down the bottle.

In reply, he reached into the basket and set three more objects on the table before me: a pair of candle tapers, a small book that contained the works of Robert Browning, and lastly, a neatly folded picnic blanket. I admit that I feigned a cough to cover the slight snicker that might have escaped me otherwise at the sight of the romantic paraphernalia spread before me, while Holmes withdrew a scrap of paper he found at the bottom of the basket.

"Surely," I said, in command of myself once more after my mild coughing fit, "Mrs. Hudson couldn't be so bold as to actually do this; in person, no less."

"Would that she could," Holmes lamented, sinking into the chair across from me with a defeated air.

I took the small note he handed me and recognised at once why he would declare such a thing, for on the paper was a brief, but horrifying message:

_From your friends at Scotland Yard._

_~~o~~_


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to smiles, Aurora-cs, and tapd0g! :)

Chapter Three

~~o~~

Of course we should have expected some form of good-natured harassment from Holmes's investigative colleagues on the force, but the basket had followed so closely on the heels of the evening paper's shocking article, that neither of us had had time to anticipate such a thing. I wondered which of the inspectors had perpetrated the joke, and I said as much to Holmes.

"It is a collaboration," he replied with a sigh. "The writing is Lestrade's, the candles come from a small shop not far from Gregson's home, and the book, I venture with some confidence, comes from Hopkins's shelf."

I confirmed Holmes's speculation by flipping open the Browning volume to see '_S. Hopkins'_ penned just inside the cover, and I felt a great deal of sympathy for my companion at that moment. Surely the inspectors, often bested by Holmes, would not miss any opportunity to amuse themselves at his expense.

It was the note that arrived later that day that confirmed the scope of the disaster that the contest was becoming for Holmes before his first evening of participation had even arrived. After having shot Mrs. Hudson a black look, he read the contents of the message she'd delivered, and handed it over to me where I sat writing, a soft groan of exasperation escaping his lips, and not for the first time that day.

'_Looking forward to the next six weeks with great interest and anticipation, ~ L.P.'_

"LP?" I inquired, but answered my own question before Holmes had the opportunity to answer me. "Langdale Pike!"

"Indeed, Watson," Holmes replied with no little consternation. I could not blame him, for the involvement of Langdale Pike meant that Holmes's ordeal of the next several weeks was likely going to be the subject of the gossip columns of more than one newspaper. While it was true that Holmes and Pike were friends, I knew that didn't mean that Pike wouldn't resort to painting a sordid (and therefore more interesting) picture of any of Holmes's encounters with the ladies of the contest.

My contemplation of the matter was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson returned to present the card of a gentleman who had arrived to call upon Holmes. Holmes took the card from her, glanced at it briefly, tossed it aside, and bestowing another dark look upon our puzzled-looking landlady, bade her send the caller in.

A young man, blonde, slight of build, and with a particularly neatly trimmed moustache, entered our sitting room with what appeared to be great enthusiasm.

"Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Holmes," he said, approaching and offering his hand. "Nigel Rutherford, of…"

"Of the _Evening Standard_," Holmes finished, showing no sign of being inclined to either rise or shake Mr. Rutherford's hand. He then gestured in my direction. "My friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."

"How do you do?" I enquired, rising and shaking his hand. I then fetched another chair for the lad, who looked perhaps slightly disappointed that his greeting had been less than welcoming. He seemed to regain himself fairly quickly, and took to explaining, with good cheer, the reason for his visit.

"As you both probably know," he began, while Holmes busied himself with filling his pipe, "it has been the position of the newspaper to report upon the evening our chosen bachelor spends in the company of the lady picked each week. I have been assigned the responsibility this year of covering the contest."

Holmes looked distinctly unimpressed and began smoking without saying a word.

Unfazed by my companion's silence, Rutherford cheerfully went on.

"In addition to my duties as a reporter, I will be acting as a chaperone of sorts each week; the paper feels it's only appropriate that any proper lady have an escort – at a distance, of course," he quickly added. "Unobtrusive observation I call it."

"How novel," Holmes replied drily, his mild sarcasm missed by our eager young reporter.

"Once your female companion for the week has been determined, we'll then notify you of the location of your outing. The editors have pre-arranged several venues, and each woman is allowed the choice of where she'd like to accompany you. Keeps it more interesting, doesn't it?" Rutherford asked with a pleasant grin.

"Absolutely fascinating," Holmes replied, most unenthusiastically. Rutherford's own exuberance kept him from noticing, and he prattled on happily, clearly excited about the chance to report on the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

While Rutherford continued to explain to Holmes the logistics of the contest, it occurred to me that there were now going to be two versions of any story reported concerning each rendezvous. While Landgale Pike was sure to embellish the romantic undercurrent of the contest, Nigel Rutherford would likely put the sunniest face on the events, making Holmes, and therefore the _Evening Standard_, shine in readers' eyes. Neither version would be one that would appeal to my dear friend, and I decided at that moment that I needed to intervene on his behalf – I would document the proceedings precisely as they unfolded, remaining as neutral and impartial as I could. I certainly was accustomed to the job.

When I voiced my idea to Rutherford, I feared that he would decline letting me join him, but after thinking it over for a brief moment, he clearly became even more enthusiastic than he had been moments before.

"Why, it's a brilliant idea, Dr. Watson!" he cried. "My editors will simply be thrilled that Mr. Holmes's biographer will be recording events as they unfold. I shall be happy to have you accompany me each week!"

Holmes shot me what appeared to be a grateful look, and then quickly rose and ushered Rutherford to the door. "We look forward to seeing you next week," he said, and then he shook the young man's hand and bustled him out the door.

"I should be very glad of your company," Holmes said quietly, reseating himself across from me, "even if you're only there for _unobtrusive observation_." He favoured me with a wan smile, but I could tell by the way his brow knit together as he returned to his pipe that he was anything but pleased.

~~o~~

By the end of the week, the situation at Baker Street had deteriorated significantly. Holmes grew more on edge the closer the selection of the first eligible woman grew, and aside from bestowing dirty looks and dark stares on Mrs. Hudson, failed to communicate with her at all. Steadfast in his notion that she was the one behind his current misery, I daresay that his withdrawn manner and virulent attitude towards her did not succeed in portraying any air of indifference whatsoever, despite what he thought.

Mrs. Hudson appeared to grow more frustrated with my companion as the week wore on, and eventually ceased trying to verbally communicate with him. She dropped off meals in silence, made a point of leaving mail on the table while Holmes was out, and left brief notes if there was some matter she needed to bring to his attention otherwise.

The more upset she appeared, the less convinced I was that she had played any part in landing him in his current predicament, and after one particularly disdainful look that Holmes had given the meal that she'd set upon our table, she had left in a hurry, appearing to be fighting back tears. I admit that I was feeling a great deal of sympathy for her by that point, for I was aware of the affection she carried in her heart for the famous detective. I knew she must be wounded by his actions, and without saying a word, I quickly followed where she had gone downstairs.

I knocked upon her door, hoping to have the chance to speak to her.

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't mean to disturb you, but might I have a word?" I called.

The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson stepped aside, indicating that I should enter, which I did.

"Look, Mrs. Hudson," I began, trying to find some way to apologise for the behaviour of my companion, "I know that Holmes has been a bit out of sorts lately, but…"

"A bit out of sorts?" she retorted. "I'll say! He spends every waking minute fretting over the next step of this silly contest, searching the papers for new developments. I know him well enough to know that he's been using that formidable brain of his to figure if there's any way possible he can avoid his obligation without a scandal. He's anxious, angry, resentful and completely preoccupied with how he's going to deal with six women he's never met before."

"That's true," I replied.

"I rather think it's good for him," she said, a smile now tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Quite right…wait! Did you say you think this is good for him?" I asked, startled by her words.

"Have you seen him reach for a syringe at all this week now that the Renfield case is at an end?" she asked, her tiny smile broadening.

"Why, no," I replied, realising that I had not seen him do so, nor had I witnessed anything typical in him of the effects of cocaine. "You _are_ at the bottom of this; Holmes was right."

Mrs. Hudson shrugged innocently, but the mischievous twinkle in her eye gave her away.

"And you did this all to prevent Holmes from being bored?" I asked suspiciously, smiling nonetheless.

"Maybe not entirely," she admitted, "but you have to admit it's worked.

"Will you tell him?" she asked after a moment.

"It's nothing he doesn't already know."

"He'll get over it," she said, but it sounded more like a question.

"Eventually." I shrugged.

"But perhaps he'll think twice, at least for a little while, about shooting holes in the plaster or trying to blow himself up in the sitting room," she said optimistically.

"One can only hope, Mrs. Hudson," I said before leaving, "one can only hope."

~~o~~

If either Mrs. Hudson or I thought that Sherlock Holmes was going to quietly resign himself to his fate, we were both sadly mistaken.

While it was true that there really was no way in which Holmes could feasibly extract himself from the contest, that didn't mean there was no feasible way for him to retaliate. This became readily apparent the next afternoon, the one upon which the first female participant was to be announced, when a nearly glass-shattering scream emanated from the rooms below ours.

Fearing for our landlady's well being, I leapt from my chair and bolted downstairs with Holmes following along behind me at quite a more nonchalant pace. By the time he had made it downstairs, I had thrown open the door and found Mrs. Hudson greatly agitated, clutching at her chest and quite breathless. She merely pointed at the small box on the floor which she had opened and then dropped after viewing its content. That, I discovered, once I had carefully picked up the box, was a dead, but nonetheless, very large, hairy spider, not unlike one or two specimens I had seen while abroad. Harmless but horrifying, the dead arachnid had arrived anonymously to terrorize the poor woman.

"You!" she growled, pointedly addressing Holmes where he stood in the doorway, one hand holding his pipe and the other tucked casually into his dressing gown pocket. His expression was completely neutral, neither denying nor confirming that he had been the one to arrange the delivery.

Mrs. Hudson looked like she dearly would have liked to have given him a piece of her mind but, apparently deciding that she was not going to react any more than she already had, merely snatched up the newly-delivered evening paper and brusquely handed it to Holmes.

Looking unhappy at the headlines, he retreated to our rooms, and after disposing of the eight-legged article of revenge, I joined Holmes to see what news the paper contained.

Earlier in the week three brief essays had been published, and the paper Holmes handed to me announced that one of them had been chosen. Of course it had all been done anonymously, with the three participants having their applications published under the pseudonyms of Miss One, Miss Two, and Miss Three to perpetuate the air of mystery, and apparently Miss Two had been most popular with readers.

The other pair of essays, while well-written, were much the same in nature, with both ladies expounding on just how fascinating it would be to spend an evening getting to know London's famous detective. Miss Two, however, had taken a different approach, which landed her the first coveted spot. Her submission had read:

[_Unlike many of the other worthy ladies who have submitted an application to this contest, I have already had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and would find another evening spent in his company, I am sure, to be most interesting and enjoyable. The museum was our first meeting place, and the morgue our second. Our first evening together was spent on a moonlit rooftop in the country, and if I were to give Mr. Holmes a single word from which to deduce my identity, it would be the word 'pirate'._]

I immediately let my hands drop to my lap with the paper and grinned at Holmes, knowing exactly who had written the essay, which was well shy of the 200 word limit. The clever young woman, knowing that the fate of the applicants rested with the votes of the readers, chose to weave an air of mystery and a hint at possible previous romance into her submission. A completely innocent account of events past, it was just the sort of thing, however, that readers and the newspaper editors would salivate over, and Miss Two was easily chosen for the first week.

"Our friend Miss Hastings is as clever as ever," Holmes said, knowing, as I did, just who he was going to spend his first evening with. "At least I shall know what to expect from her."

I tried not to smile too broadly at the relief contained in Holmes's words. Miss Lydia Hastings, a naturalist at the British Museum, had been a useful resource for Holmes on more than one occasion, the first of which involved a case of two seafaring rogues, the account of which the public is not yet ready for. I suspect it will be quite some time before I publish the tale of that adventure, if, in fact, I ever do.

"How fortunate that you managed to wangle yourself an invitation for the evening," Holmes said with dry humour, and my grin turned a bit sheepish. Holmes knew that I had found the young, auburn-haired naturalist quite attractive in the past, although I had managed to get him to admit as much himself. I suspect it was her practised analysis of minute detail, efficient research methods, and access to a great number of premier experts at the British Museum that held the most appeal for my companion.

One of the unexpected benefits of taking a role in chronicling the events of the contest, was that I was let in on the newspaper's plans for the outings before Holmes was, with the stipulation, of course, that I was to find a way to remain in the background during the meeting, and that I was to give my word that I would not tell our illustrious bachelor ahead of time.

If there is one other thing about Miss Hastings that I know, besides the fact that she is an intelligent researcher, it is that she is also a very clever and persistent woman who often gets her way, either with charm, a sound argument for her point, or a combination of both. It was therefore that I was not as surprised as I might have been by what she had arranged for the location for her evening with Holmes. Although not one of the ideas originally on the list compiled by the editors, they were pleasantly intrigued by what she had proposed, and immediately set about seeing to all the arrangements.

I agreed that her plans would at least be mildly amusing for Holmes, and I steadfastly refused to say the slightest word on the matter, leaving him frustrated that he would not be able to deduce anything whatsoever about what Lydia had in mind. His attempts to elicit any hint from me, often subtle and devious, continued right up until the evening itself, but knowing how astute and insightful my companion was, and how much he could infer from an expression or even tone of voice, I simply took to ignoring him, or to giving him a knowing grin and exiting the room, leaving him to wait to find out for himself.

~~o~~

**A/N:** For those of you who have read _A Study in Rum_, you will recognize Lydia and the fact that 'Watson' did eventually decide to record the events of the case he refers to. :)

Oh, and for the record, this story will not involve any romance for Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks also to tapd0g!

~~o~~

Chapter Four

~~o~~

The evening that Holmes was to spend in the company of Miss Lydia Hastings turned out to be a lovely, warm one, and I left him to finish dressing as I went ahead of time to meet with Nigel Rutherford at our pre-arranged meeting point.

Miss Hastings, known for being ever prompt, characteristically arrived a few moments ahead of schedule, and I had the opportunity to chat with her and catch up on the month since she had last assisted us in a case.

If Holmes had deduced just what she had in store for the evening before arriving at the waterfront, he was kind enough not to spoil her fun as he approached and glanced over the young naturalist and then the dockside, where an elegant and venerable three-masted schooner awaited.

"I thought it would be appropriate," Lydia said to him in a somewhat playful manner as she gestured at the vessel beside the dock, "given the way we first met. Despite how much time we spent in the company of, erm, _sailors_, we never did actually make it on board a ship."

"Quite true," Holmes replied, smiling just a little. "Shall we?"

He escorted Lydia to the small gangplank, crossing first and then extending his hand to help her aboard the ship. It turned out that the _Evening Standard_, at Lydia's suggestion, had arranged dinner for two to be served on the schooner for a short sunset cruise on the river, and while Holmes and Lydia were seated at the table set up for them on deck, Rutherford and I took up position a short distance away beyond one of the masts. I felt more like I was spying on one of Holmes's suspects, rather than recording the evening's events, but soon Rutherford and I fell to small talk while we each took notes and enjoyed the fair breeze that wafted across the deck and filled the sails.

"How is your father?" I heard Holmes ask, trying to be polite.

"Quite well, thank you," Lydia replied. "He's abroad again in Tasmania, finishing up some research we had previously started."

"Reptiles again?" Holmes enquired.

"Yes, we're hoping to be able to name a new type of lizard; it was my brother that first suspected no one had yet named this species," replied Lydia proudly. Holmes and I both knew how fond she'd been of her brother, and Holmes himself had helped to unofficially investigate his death several years before.

Their conversation continued easily on about the new species, research methods, some comparisons of the places that each had travelled, and then a recap of Holmes's recent capture of Renfield when Lydia had asked about his latest case. At the end of dinner Holmes dragged his pipe out of his pocket and lit it, already knowing from past dealings that Lydia was not opposed to tobacco smoke, especially out of doors. After a moment of smoking and looking thoughtful, Holmes finally addressed the young woman seated across from him.

"How is it that a busy researcher such as yourself would decide to spend her time participating in a frivolous enterprise like this contest?" he enquired, clearly feeling that a fellow devotee of detailed analysis and deduction, although in a different field, would consider the contest in the same disdainful light. "Don't you find it a waste of time?"

Rutherford and I each cringed and glanced at each other, recognising what Sherlock Holmes didn't –that he'd just set foot into dangerous territory.

"If I were to consider time in your company wasted, then I would have already lost a fair number of precious hours for nothing," Lydia replied pleasantly.

"I suppose that is true," Holmes admitted, knowing how many obscure answers she'd ferreted out for him since we had first met her.

Even from a distance, I recognised the elfin smile and mischievous tone that had crept into Lydia's voice as she spoke again.

"I suppose, then, that you consider this evening a waste of time?" she asked sweetly.

Rutherford and I glanced at each other again, each aware of the fact that she'd figuratively trapped Holmes in a corner. I found myself cringing inwardly again, afraid of just what Holmes might say.

Holmes smoked in silence for a moment, the expression he regarded her with the same one he might wear if he himself had discovered a new species and was trying to determine if it was harmless or not, until Lydia laughed at the dilemma she'd placed him in.

"Please say yes," she said with an engaging smile. "I promise I won't take it personally, but I will worry that I am having dinner with an imposter if you say no."

Holmes actually smiled a little. "Well, I have no case at present, and I suppose there are worse ways to spend an evening."

Lydia laughed again. "Very diplomatic of you; I shall take that as a compliment coming from Sherlock Holmes."

"You never answered my first question," Holmes replied, seemingly somewhat relieved.

"Why I entered the contest?" Lydia asked. "I'm doing you a favour."

"A favour? In what way?" Holmes asked, clearing intrigued by her answer.

"If you weren't spending the evening with me, who would you be stuck with?" Lydia asked after taking a sip of wine.

"I don't know," Holmes confessed.

"Precisely." Lydia smiled fondly at her dinner companion. "You saved my life once; I figured the least I could do was save you from one completely wasted evening. It _is _rather private out here on the water, is it not? Other than Mr. Rutherford and the good doctor, there is no one, save a few crew, to spy upon your rendezvous. I daresay you shan't be so lucky in the following weeks."

It apparently occurred to Holmes the same moment it occurred to me, that his outings were going to likely be even less private than we'd thought, but Lydia spoke up again before he could fret too much about what she'd surmised ahead of time.

"Besides," she added with a charming smile, "dinner at sunset with a famous and interesting gentleman is not what I would consider a frivolous use of time; scientist though I may be, I _am_ also a woman."

"So I'd noticed," Holmes replied, but from his tone one would be hard pressed to tell whether or not he considered that to be in her favour or not.

"Had you?" she asked, and it was easy to recognise that she was teasing him, and not for the first time since they'd met.

"I do have a reputation for being fairly observant," Holmes replied with dry humour.

"So I'd heard," Lydia said with a light laugh that carried on the wind across the deck.

~~o~~

The brief remainder of the evening went smoothly, and once we had disembarked from the schooner, Lydia had said goodnight to Rutherford and then bestowed a quick but affection embrace upon me. I can't honestly say I minded.

Holmes then walked with Lydia to the cab that waited for her.

"Congratulations," she said, turning to him with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "you are one-sixth of the way through your ordeal."

"Interesting choice of words, Miss Hastings," Holmes replied. He knew as well as I did that it was the very word he himself would have chosen to describe his participation in the contest, and he favoured her with a rare warm smile.

"Good luck with the rest of the contest," she said, and although Rutherford probably didn't notice, I could discern from where I stood that Sherlock Holmes appeared subtly to brace himself. The reason, of course, was that he was accustomed by now to Lydia's departures from our company; often she favoured each of us with a hug or a peck on the cheek, the way she might say goodbye to a pair of favourite uncles, and that evening was to be no different.

"Goodnight, Lydia," he said, managing to hold his ground when she stepped closer.

"Goodnight," she said cheerfully, embracing him briefly and then taking the hand he offered to help her up into the cab. He returned the wave she gave as the cabbie called to his horse, and joined Rutherford and myself.

"I'd say this evening went splendidly!" Rutherford said keenly to Holmes. "I hope you gentlemen won't think me rude for dashing off, but I do have an article to prepare for tomorrow. Until next week, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!" With that, the enthusiastic young reporter took his leave, and Holmes and I headed for our own cab.

Once inside and on our way home, I ventured to ask Holmes how he felt things had gone.

"Oh fine, Watson, fine," he said, and it was evident to me that there was a measure of relief in his tone of voice. "Miss Hastings is always intriguing company."

Rather than spoil Holmes's serene mood and good cheer at having successfully weathered the first leg of the contest, I chose not to inform him that it had been my developing opinion for some time that Lydia Hastings might possibly feel that Holmes's company was more than intriguing.

"You know, Watson," Holmes said from where he sat next to me, as we rattled along toward Baker Street, "I don't believe this contest is going to be as bad as all that after all."

It's not often that Sherlock Holmes is completely wrong, but in this instance we were dealing with the subject of women, and the great detective was about to find out just how mistaken he was.

~~o~~

It was tea time again before I saw Holmes the next day, when he returned to Baker Street after some business he'd had down at the waterfront, and then at Scotland Yard concerning the Renfield case. He'd dashed off his hat and coat, tossing them on the settee, and after lighting a cigarette, flung himself down in his favourite chair.

"Note for you there on the mantel," I said, glancing up from the book in my lap. I marked my place in _The Cask of Amontillado_ as he fetched it and sat back down in his chair to open it, curious as to who it was from. While the information that I might have deduced by examination of the envelope may have been limited, I could, however, discern that the writing was that of a woman, and I waited for Holmes to share the note's contents with me.

It was only a moment before his brows knit together in apparent perplexity, and then abruptly some form of understanding, and not a pleasant one, I surmised, dawned across his countenance.

"Wretched, wretched woman!" he cried, and he threw the paper on the floor, leapt to his feet, and flung his cigarette into the fire, leaning one forearm against the mantel and staring into the grate. Rather than bombard him with questions in his aggravated state, I retrieved the discarded note and read it myself.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I must tell you that I was quite pleased to receive the lovely bouquet of flowers you sent this morning, as well as the thoughtful message you wrote. I wish you to know that both are greatly appreciated, and that your kind gesture means a great deal to me. Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Lydia Hastings_

"But, Holmes," I began protesting on Lydia's behalf, not understanding what he found to be so wretched in her message. "She merely took the time to express her gratitude; I fail to see why you find fault with that."

"I don't," he replied, clearly still vexed.

"Then why?' I began, only to be interrupted by him turning upon me with an impatient answer.

"Because I was not the one who sent her flowers, Watson!"

"Oh," I replied, confused at first as to just what had happened. It did, however, only take me a moment to fathom the source of Holmes's frustration. "Oh!"

"Precisely, Watson," Holmes said, intuitively understanding that I had realised Mrs. Hudson was the likely source of the flowers. "No doubt the signature on whatever message I supposedly sent to Miss Hastings was very convincing."

"No doubt," I agreed, losing myself in my own thoughts. While the same thing very likely wouldn't occur to Holmes, I was displeased that Mrs. Hudson would stoop to sending flowers, supposedly from Holmes, to a young woman who already thought a great deal of the famous detective. Indeed, Mrs. Hudson had herself once voiced the opinion to me that Miss Lydia Hastings would be an excellent catch for any man who was smart enough to recognise what a fine wife she might make, and I knew she wasn't dropping the hint to me by the way she glanced meaningfully at an oblivious Sherlock Holmes. Sending flowers to the poor girl might only serve to mislead her into the wrong impression about Holmes's intentions, and I resolved that I would have a word with my landlady at once.

I excused myself, leaving Holmes staring into the fireplace in his state of frustration, and went to knock on the door to Mrs. Hudson's rooms.

"I need to speak to you most urgently," I said sternly, once she had opened the door.

"Why, whatever about, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asked with some concern, most likely after seeing the grave expression I wore.

"About the flowers."

"What flowers?" she asked, clearly puzzled, or at least, giving me her best impression of a person who appeared to be puzzled.

"The ones Mr. Holmes supposedly sent Miss Hastings."

Mrs. Hudson went wide-eyed for a moment, and then looked absolutely tickled. "He sent her flowers?" she asked excitedly, and it was clear that her genuine interest in any possible romantic developments far outweighed her current irritation with her famous tenant.

"No, he didn't," I replied, "but someone did."

Mrs. Hudson's disappointment was all too apparent, and then she caught on to what I was insinuating.

"Doctor Watson, I'm surprised you'd think so little of me," she began scolding me. "That would be most unfair to poor Miss Hastings, and I would never…"

I patted her on the arm as she broke off, obviously somewhat distressed over the situation. "Of course you wouldn't," I said soothingly.

"But then, who did?" she asked, knowing as well as I did that it certainly couldn't have been Holmes.

All I could do was shrug to indicate my ignorance in the matter, and I trudged back up the stairs to find Holmes back in his chair, violin in one hand, while he stared into nothingness and absently tapped the bow repeatedly against his knee.

"I suppose she denies everything," Holmes said distantly, still lightly rapping the bow against his leg as I told him she did. Apparently he finally gave up any thoughts of playing, and let the violin and bow clatter softly to the floor beside his chair. "Huh!" was all he said.

"I believe her in this instance, Holmes," I said in reply to what appeared to be the onset of ill temper with him.

"Watson, you are far too trusting," he retorted grumpily. "Time and again I have said this to be one of your greatest shortcomings."

I refused to indulge his petulance. "You have also said, time and again," I replied calmly, "that it is also one of my greatest assets."

Holmes raised an eyebrow at me, and then I thought I could detect a hint of a smile playing upon his lips. "That is true," was all he said, but it seemed to me that his descent into a blacker mood had been interrupted. Until the evening papers arrived, that is.

The _Evening Standard _was, as to be expected, the first paper out of the several Holmes typically had delivered that we searched through for an article reporting on the first outing of the year's Eligible Bachelor. It took only a moment to locate Nigel Rutherford's report of the previous evening's proceedings, and Holmes casually perused several other publications, both for word of his rendezvous with Miss Hastings and crime reports that might catch his interest, while I read young Rutherford's article aloud to him.

'_Eligible Bachelor, Sherlock Holmes, Spends First Evening with Lovely Scientist_,' read the title, and then I delved into the report found underneath when he vaguely gestured in my direction from behind the newspaper he currently held, indicating I should continue.

[_The Evening Standard is pleased to report on the evening Mr. Sherlock Holmes spent in the company of Miss Lydia Hastings, a naturalist employed by the venerated British Museum. It is this reporter's observation that not only is Miss Hastings quite well-spoken, but she appears to be familiar with a broad variety of topics, including several that Mr. Holmes and she have in common. One could not help but perceive that Miss Hastings, an auburn haired beauty of some note, seemed to hold the attention of our esteemed Mr. Holmes quite easily._

_The couple spent their time together on a private sunset cruise along the Thames, aboard an antique schooner commissioned for the evening. They enjoyed an intimate candlelit dinner for two served on deck._]

The remainder of the article quite blandly continued on in the same fashion, harmlessly informing readers of the details of the weather, the meal served, and the fact that Holmes was gentleman enough to escort Miss Hastings both on and off the ship, as well as the fact that he gallantly helped her into her cab at the end of the night. I would have continued reading the details to Holmes, had he not suddenly cried out with some agitation from behind the open pages of _The Star_.

"Dear _God_, Watson!" he cried, staring at the paper with quite some horror. "I do believe that I owe Mrs. Hudson an apology."

"For what?" I asked, curious as to which affront Holmes felt was the one he needed to make amends for to our good landlady.

"For jumping to the conclusion that it was she who sent the flowers on my behalf; I assumed that she intended to take her revenge for the spider in that manner, but now I see that my conclusion was certainly erroneous."

"And just what makes you say that, Holmes?" I enquired, anxious to hear just what had made him so vehemently change his mind. Holmes's reply came in the form of him folding the paper and handing it to me so that I could inspect the article he had evidently been reading. Before even reading a word, I cringed in dread as I noted it was written by Langdale Pike.

[_It should be noted that last evening was the first to be enjoyed by participants in the Evening Standard's yearly contest, The Eligible Bachelor. As readers will already know, the single gentleman taking part in this year's affair is the renowned and celebrated detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes._

_Known widely for his talent for looking for subtle clues to solve mysteries, one would have to say there appeared to be nothing subtle about the way Mr. Holmes was looking at his dinner companion, and no mystery as to why. _

_Both agreeable and alluring, Miss Lydia Hastings, a scientist employed by the British Museum, was the chestnut-haired beauty who accompanied Mr. Holmes on a romantic outing last night, and after taking one look at the charming young woman, one can't blame our illustrious bachelor for clearly admiring more than the lady's intellect_.]

Here I glanced up from my reading to discover Holmes sitting across from me with his eyes closed, a pained look upon his face while he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

"Read on, it gets worse," he said flatly, and I picked up where I had left off.

[_The pair seemed quite chummy during a very private dinner, which took place on the deck of a sailing ship at sunset, quite the romantic setting, and one apparently suggested by Miss Hastings. It appeared to be a cosy little encounter, especially for two people just getting to know each other, but of course, we know from Miss Hastings's submitted essay, that the two knew each other prior to the contest._

_Which begs the question, just how well do this couple know one another?_

_Miss Hastings says they first met in the museum, but would this have been during hours, or after, for surely her office is very private once the museum closes. She reported that they next met in the morgue, and one wonders how Mr. Holmes, who often has access to the facility during his investigations, could be troubled to examine a dead body, with the comely Miss Hastings in his close company_.]

Here Holmes groaned softly, interrupting me again.

"Your friend Pike does poor Lydia an injustice with these insinuations," I said with a measure of protective indignation.

"Keep reading," Holmes replied in a pained manner.

[_And one cannot help but wonder just what took place on that rooftop Miss Hastings referred to; what sort of research and investigation took place that night? Clearly only the moon, which softly lit that scene, knows the exact answers, but it would take little imagination to come close to the truth, especially with the way the fetching young lady threw herself into Mr. Holmes's arms for a passionate embrace at the end of their sponsored tryst last evening._

_Any doubt one might have about the feelings Mr. Sherlock Holmes has for Miss Lydia Hastings can be laid to rest with the knowledge that this very morning he sent her an expensive bouquet of yellow roses, her favourite flower, accompanied by a quite personal note._

_A very interesting event, this contest of the Evening Standard will be, if all of Mr. Holmes's ladies receive such intimate attention from the good detective_.]

I let my hands drop to my lap with the paper, and a shocked silence reigned for perhaps twenty full seconds.

"Pike sent the flowers," Holmes finally announced softly.

As I thought about it, it seemed just the sort of thing that the master gossiper would do.

"Of course! Rutherford certainly would have reported on their delivery had he known about them, but only Pike managed to include such a significant detail in his column! It makes for fabulous gossip!"

"Oh, Watson, I do fear that I was gravely mistaken," Holmes suddenly lamented.

"No, no! It must have been Pike!" I argued.

"It was, but that is not what I meant," said he in reply. "I do believe this contest is going to be much worse than I thought after all."

~~o~~


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thanks also to tapd0g!

Chapter Five

~~o~~

After being appalled at the insinuations contained in the column that Langdale Pike had written, I jumped to my feet and tossed _The Star_ aside, making my way quickly to the door.

"Watson, my dear fellow, there really is no need," Holmes called after me, stopping me in my tracks. I have no doubt it took him no effort at all to deduce that I was on my way to find Langdale Pike and give the scoundrel a piece of my mind for writing such drivel about not only Holmes, but a young woman we both had a great deal of respect for. "It will only amuse him if he gets a reaction out of me, or even one from you; it could actually make things worse if you go storming into his lair."

"Lair indeed; a fair term for where that snake bides his time!" I huffed indignantly. "You mean it could be worse than implying that you…that you…you've had _relations_ with poor Lydia in the morgue?"

"I assume that you say 'poor Lydia' because Pike is besmirching her reputation, and not because it is_ I_ who have supposedly had, as you so delicately put it, Doctor, _relations_ with the fair naturalist?"

For a moment I didn't quite know what to say to Holmes's seemingly insulted tone, and I stammered an inadequate attempt at making amends for causing him offence.

"No! I mean yes! I mean yes, 'poor Lydia' because of Pike, and not because of you having relations with her."

Holmes let one eyebrow lift in his otherwise stony expression, and I panicked a little.

"Not that you've _had_ relations with Lydia; of course you haven't," I added awkwardly. "Lydia would never be the type to have had relations with you." I smiled in a rather tenuous fashion, and then realised what I had just said when Holmes's second eyebrow climbed to meet the first.

"I mean because she's rather proper," I tried clarifying, sputtering along ineffectively, and finding little encouragement in the expression Holmes now wore.

"Not that you aren't!" I hastily added, trying to backtrack. "I can't think of anyone who can be more proper than you when you're inclined to. You're quite the impressive English gentleman, Holmes. In fact, if Lydia weren't so proper, she probably _would_ have relations with you."

By this point, Sherlock Holmes had tipped his head slightly and regarded me with a quizzical and unsure look.

"I mean, if you were so inclined.

"Erm, discreetly of course, so as not to seem to be having relations improperly…

"That is to say, so as not to seem to be _inappropriately _having relations, because I'm sure you can have them properly…

Silence reigned.

"I say, Holmes," I went on with a fair measure of desperation, "might we change the subject altogether?"

"You mean rather than you going on about how Miss Hastings would only have relations with me if she weren't a proper lady, and there would still be some question as to whether or not I would know just what I was doing?"

I winced and nodded at the same time.

"Yes, I quite think so," he replied shortly.

I was feeling relieved until I saw the corners of Holmes's mouth twitch.

"You've been toying with me!" I said with an ineffectual air of indignation, for my grin was as broad as Holmes's was by that point.

"I'm afraid I couldn't pass up the chance to see you dig yourself into a hole, old man," Holmes replied cheerfully. "I have to be able to find some shred of amusement in this whole ordeal."

"That was the very word that Lydia used last night," I reminded him. "It seems as though this contest might be a bit of one for her as well, thanks to Pike's column."

"As gallant as your concerns are for the fair maiden, Watson, I daresay that our Miss Hastings is made of sturdier stuff than would allow her to be bothered by some nonsense in a gossip column," Holmes responded, now shuffling through the rest of the papers and looking for something to pique his interest. "I shall make it a point to have a word with Pike, and have him send her an apology for falsifying whom the flowers were from. He can do me that small favour at least; he seems already to be having a fair amount of amusement at my expense and I suspect it will continue."

"No doubt," I said, thoroughly in agreement. "Anything of interest in the papers?"

Holmes shook his head. "Merely an announcement concerning the date next week which our slippery friend Renfield will appear in police-court; nothing else."

~~o~~

The next morning I arose to the slightly pungent smell of cabbage cooking, yet I was surprised to discover that no sign of anything reminiscent of bubble and squeak appeared at our breakfast table. Assuming that Mrs. Hudson had got an early start on Sunday dinner, I likewise found it odd later that afternoon that still the same smell wafted up the stairs, and still the vegetable was yet to be seen. The smell of after-dinner tobacco filled our sitting room, obscuring any remnants of cabbage, and I had completely forgotten about the incident until the next morning, when I awoke once more to the same odour permeating all of 221 Baker Street. Apparently Holmes had noticed the smell as well.

"What _is_ that woman cooking?" he asked as he sat down across from me and poured himself coffee. My only answer was a shrug, and he scowled. "I do wish Mrs. Hudson would dispense with preparing whatever involves so much cabbage; I simply cannot abide the smell!"

It was not the first time I had heard Sherlock Holmes voice a complaint about the vegetable he apparently found offensive, and of course, it was a sentiment Mrs. Hudson was well used to hearing expressed by my companion. The next morning, the third upon which the strong scent of boiling cabbage penetrated the upper rooms of the house, it suddenly occurred to me that the reason Mrs. Hudson had been cooking cabbage for three straight days had nothing whatsoever to do with feeding us, but indeed must have been a subtle but smelly step toward retaliation for the previously delivered spider.

The perspicacious detective that I lived with had apparently arrived at the very same conclusion, and he flung his bedroom door open, stepped into the sitting room in his nightshirt, took one sniff, and strode determinedly to the landing outside our door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he bellowed down the stairs, and when a reply was obviously pointedly being withheld, he called loudly down again. "Boil all the cabbage in London if you like; it shall not disturb me one bit!"

With that he shut the door rather sharply, and sank back against it.

"I am being accosted from all quarters," he said softly, clearly with the air of one who is being wrongly persecuted.

"I'm still on your side, old man," I said encouragingly. "Sit down and have some breakfast."

Holmes leaned off the door and headed briskly for his room. "Thank you, no. I have business in quite less odiferous surrounds," he called back over his shoulder. "Nothing whatsoever against your company, my dear Watson," he said when emerging from his room dressed, some short while later, "but this morning I shall find it less distasteful to breakfast at the St. James's Street club than here in this mephitic fog. Good morning!"

Holmes, his hat, and his walking stick were gone in an instant, and a moment later I heard the front door close below.

I knew the precise moment he returned, many hours later, for as soon as the front door opened, I could hear him growl something unintelligible upon walking into an invisible yet persistent sulphurous cloud of vegetal origin. The smell of cabbage does not generally annoy me, but I must admit that by the end of three solid days of smelling nothing else, even I was beginning to find Mrs. Hudson's choice of weapons more than a bit tiresome.

Holmes threw open the door to the sitting room where I was reading, and smoking my favourite brand of cigar in an attempt to overpower the smell suffusing the entire house. After doing likewise and filling his pipe with the strongest shag tobacco he had, Holmes seated himself across from me and spoke.

"You will be glad of the news I bring you, Watson," he said between enthusiastic puffs meant to surround him with a protective barrier of pipe smoke. "I have had a serious talk with Langdale Pike, and he has agreed to send a note of apology this very afternoon to our dear Miss Hastings."

"In return for what?" I asked with some suspicion. There was always a price for Pike's cooperation.

Holmes smoked energetically for another long moment to reinforce his defences, as did I, and then he finally answered.

"In return for my agreement to not interfere with his reporting on the rest of the proceedings of the contest."

"But he could say anything!" I protested.

"And no doubt he shall," Holmes agreed.

"But doesn't that bother you?"

"Should it?"

"I would think so! Already he has more than hinted at a most intimate relationship between Lydia and yourself –he had the nerve to say she flung herself passionately into your arms, when in truth all she did was embrace you briefly in an affectionate yet chaste manner."

"Merely a matter of perspective, Watson, and the livelier perspective will certainly sell more newspapers," Holmes replied philosophically. "At the end of six weeks, the gossip-eager public will have moved on to reading about some other dubious affair or scandalous relationship, and I shall return to the mundane task of working out my usual queer little problems."

"Mundane, indeed!" I scoffed, for I had yet to encounter much that was mundane in the business of Sherlock Holmes. I hadn't a chance to comment further, for at that moment there was a brief knock at our door, and looking for all the world as though nothing were amiss in the least, Mrs. Hudson carried in a note.

"I have a message for you, Doctor," she said pleasantly, coming to give me the paper she held in her hand. Both she and Holmes acted precisely as they would have if I had been the only other person in the room.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said as normally as I could manage, and I opened the note as she left as casually as she could. The message contained within concerned a long-term patient of mine who had retired to the country for his health, and a request for me to attend him for a persistent and somewhat alarming cough that had developed rather acutely.

"By the look on your face, Watson, I would say that you are about to gather up your medical bag and your stethoscope and hail yourself a quick cab," Holmes ventured from the haze of pipe smoke surrounding his chair. "At least you have an excuse to escape this dreadful funk."

"I wish it were only that," I replied, tossing the remains of my cigar into the fire and heading for my room. "A patient of mine in Sussex has taken a turn for the worse, and I must go to him."

"Sussex!" Holmes exclaimed.

"Yes, flatteringly but unfortunately, he retains more confidence in my opinion than his local village physician," I said with a sigh. "I must pack a bag; no doubt I will be gone at least one night."

"No doubt," Holmes replied, refilling his pipe and looking rather thoughtful as I left to gather my things.

When I poked my head back into the sitting room to say my goodbye to Holmes, I found him tinkering with the pegs of the Stradivarius, apparently in anticipation of playing.

"There is a cab waiting for you downstairs," he said, looking up briefly from his task. "Safe journey, Watson; I hope your patient fares well."

"Thank you, Holmes," I said appreciatively as he returned his attention to the violin, tucking it under his chin and drawing the bow briefly across the strings. I cringed involuntarily at the wretched noise that uncharacteristically emanated from the instrument when in his hands. "I say, Holmes," I said just before heading down the stairs, "that thing sounds woefully out of tune."

"Does it?" he asked, receiving a vigorous nod on my part, but it seemed to me that I may have perceived the slightest hint of mischief in his query before I left.

~~o~~

When I arrived home, two days later, I was quite relieved to not encounter a wall of cabbage fumes when I unlocked the front door. What I did encounter, almost immediately after I closed the door behind me, was a harried-appearing Mrs. Hudson, who grabbed desperately at my sleeve.

"Dr. Watson, thank God you're back!" she gasped.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you quite alright?" I asked with some concern, for she looked as though she hadn't slept in some time. "You look exhausted; are you ill?"

"No, but I've not had more than a wink of sleep since you left!" she replied unhappily. "It's Mr. Holmes and that miserable violin!"

"The violin?"

"Yes! He's been playing it at all hours for two days! I can hardly stand it!"

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, trying to be calm and reasonable with her, "Mr. Holmes always plays the violin at odd hours; that's nothing new. Surely you're accustomed to it by now."

"_When_ it's in tune!" she cried emphatically.

It suddenly occurred to me what Holmes had done. His turn at retaliation, going one better than filling the house with cabbage fumes, was to fill Baker Street with the worst, off-tune, discordant and grating violin music that he possibly could muster, for _two_ days. As if to prove my theory right, there came from above us the most strident and vexacious variation on a theme of Paganini that the mind could possibly conjure up, and I suddenly felt a great deal of sympathy for my poor landlady. I had to admit that Holmes was definitely scoring more points thus far in the somewhat childish contention between my two housemates.

"I shall take care of this immediately," I assured Mrs. Hudson. "Go and get some rest."

I held up a copy of the _Evening Standard_ to demonstrate that I had a suitable distraction for Holmes that would very likely put an end to his playing, at least the current off-tune version anyway.

Upon my entering the sitting room, Holmes ceased playing and greeted me cordially, setting down the violin upon his desk without the slightest hint of anything amiss in his manner; it was as if he had just been enjoying himself by indulging in a cadenza at the end of a favourite piece, and not actually attempting to duplicate the mating call of the banshee with the poor Stradivarius.

"And how is your patient?" he asked casually, looking over his collection of pipes upon the mantelpiece and trying to decide which was his preference at that moment.

"My patient is fine," I replied sternly, "but I daresay Mrs. Hudson is not."

"Oh?" Holmes asked innocently as he made his selection and began filling it with tobacco. "Why wouldn't she be?"

"Nevermind that; you know very well why she is quite exhausted at the moment," I scolded him lightly. "You know, she does actually have the ability to toss you out."

Holmes gave me a brief sour look as if I had just spoiled his fun, and dropped into his chair. "Very well, I shall only play _in tune_ as best I can from this point forward."

"And I should say only during daylight hours for at least the next three weeks," I added firmly.

"Very well."

Holmes's gaze had drifted to the paper I carried, and it was clear that the topic of violin torture had instantly become a thing of the past. "They've announced the next selection?" he asked, now seeming somewhat hesitant.

"Yes. Shall I read the article to you?" I asked, folding open the paper to the newest announcement. Holmes merely nodded.

Once again, there had been submissions from a Miss One, a Miss Two, and a Miss Three, but it was clearly Miss Three's essay that stood out from the others, and was the one announced as the winner. It was once more contained in Rutherford's column for the benefit of readers who might have missed it the first time around. (Holmes and I had each missed it for the obvious reason that we had each been preoccupied with our own endeavours for the previous forty-eight hours.)

[_I submit this essay with the hopes that it may persuade readers that I should be selected as the next fortunate woman to have the honour to accompany Mr. Sherlock Holmes for an evening. While I am sure that English women are accustomed to hearing about the efforts of Mr. Holmes to make the city of London a safer place for them, I must assure them that his impressive reputation has not gone unnoticed, nor unappreciated outside of England. Women of the continent such as myself only wish we had such a gallant gentleman who endeavoured so tirelessly to make our own cities safe. I had first been apprehensive about leaving my home and coming to London, but when I realised that I would be staying in the very city where Mr. Holmes resides, my mind was put at ease. I should like very much to have the opportunity to meet him, and to discuss what it is that makes him so successful at his occupation. I think I should return home the better for having met him, and with a more optimistic outlook on life, knowing such a man truly exists_.]

I laid the paper down across my lap. "Well, if that isn't a boost to your ego, I don't know what is."

"According to you, quite often in fact, my dear doctor," Holmes returned drily, "my ego needs no bolstering."

"Well, certainly nobody told that to Miss Three!" I laughed aloud, as did Holmes at my comment.

"I have to admit, Watson, that I am somewhat relieved to hear the essay."

"Why is that?"

"It seems as though my next companion is a well-spoken lady who has an appreciation for my art; I rather think the second week should go smoothly, don't you?"

"I don't see why not," I replied, and we each opened a newspaper to seek out that which might interest us most.

~~o~~


End file.
